Carry Me Home (43 page)

Ty chuckled. To Red he said, “That from a man who made me sleep in a foot a mud fer—” Then to Bobby, “How long were you with us, anyway?”

“I’ll make up the bed,” Red said. “We really want you to stay. Besides, you’ve got to write down the recipe ...”

“Honey.” Ty plopped a hand on the table. “Ketchup. Worcestershire sauce. Orange peel. Bay leaf.” Then he laughed. “I got so much more to tell ya. We’re goina be good fer each other. Bobby, we’re goina be good fer each other. I could help ya. Help ya run the whole shee-bang. I’m a good troop.”

“I’m going to make the bed.” Red stood. To Bobby she added, “Then I’m going to bed.”

“I had pride, Cap’n Wapinski, Sir,” Ty said drunkenly. “I had pride when I was with you, Sir. I had pride then. Now, what I got? Goddamn, Sir. What I ... When I got home, Sir, there a dude in my bed. My baby, year en a half, call him ‘Da-dee.’ Like that. ‘Da-dee.’ What I got now?” Ty leaned back, laughed, blurted loudly, “Mothafucka, how I s’pose ta know? I swear my own brother set me up. Said she was eighteen. Fourteen! Oh, but she was sweet. Swee-eet! Statutory rape! How was I s’pose ta know?”

In the morning Bobby woke, dropped his feet to the floor, slumped, braced his head with his hands. His head banged, his eyes felt swollen. Then from the kitchen he smelled coffee. Red came from the bathroom. “I had something important to tell you last night.” Her tone was controlled anger.

“Um.” He looked up. She looked pretty in her nightgown. “So tell me.”

“With him”—she wagged a finger at the bedroom door, her whole body shook—“in the house?”

“Yeah. I guess. If it’s important. What—”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

He sat up straighter. His face furrowed. A smile began to form on his face. He mouthed the word
pregnant
, stood, the smile re-forming, spreading.

She did not look at him but turned her back, cold, annoyed. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment at ten.”

“I’ll take—”

“I can drive.”

“How far along—”

“Six weeks, I think.”

Bobby wrapped his arms around Red even as she stood facing away. He kissed the top of her head. Her hair tickled his face. Behind his smile his head was still banging. “I love you,” he whispered.

She turned in his grasp, pushed away. “But I don’t love you,” she said. “I’m going to shower.” With that she went into the bathroom and locked the door.

Again Bobby worked a full day. Red went from the doctor’s office to People’s Life in Larkspur and she too worked late. Ty moved a few things into the guest bedroom, grocery shopped at the Safeway, drove past Great Homes, returned, parked his Caddy in the driveway instead of across the street, cleaned the kitchen, readied dinner. The evening was a repeat of the one before—perhaps with less beer, but with more talk—current talk and continuing stories—Wap asking about various operations, about what had happened at Firebase Ripcord. What had happened to the 1st of the 506th? How did the company commander get killed? Was it on Ripcord or on an adjoining hill? To much of the Ripcord stuff Ty Dorsey just shook his head, stammered, “Ya know, what the fuck, over.” “Yeah,” Bobby agreed not realizing, and Ty not volunteering, that he wasn’t with the 1/506th anymore when Ripcord was overrun—indeed had been released to an administrative holding company while awaiting trial for possession of a controlled substance and insubordination to an officer.

“They both was bad mothafuckas, Bobby. Ah, but life goes on! Life goes on! Time to pick up a piece a the pie. Aint no pie at home.”

“Yeah. I didn’t come home to pie either.”

“Yeah.”

Later, in the back bedroom, alone, Bobby and Red barely spoke. “What did the doctor say?”

“I’ve got to call them tomorrow.”

“Red ...”

“Hmm.”

“I’m sorry about Ty being here right now. I’ll try to get him a room....”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I know you like your privacy and—”

“He’s okay. He’s nice. And he’s a good cook. It’s nice having somebody else cook. I just wish he wouldn’t drop cigarette ashes all over.”

“I’ll mention it to him.”

“And put a coaster under his beer. He’s leaving rings everywhere.”

“Um-hmm.”

“And his boots go in his room, not in the living room.”

“Okay.” For a long time they were silent. Bobby tried to picture Stacy but it was as if a wall had been erected in his mind preventing him from seeing to last week. Instead he saw Sharon McGowan. She was nice. Safe. She had a boyfriend. They could be friends—no overtones. Bobby rolled to Red, kissed her. She did not respond.

On Thursday Bobby called Red at work but she was out. She didn’t return his call. At three, Ty walked into the Great Homes office. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive gray twill suit, black wingtip shoes, a gold watch and gold wedding band. He’d had his hair cut, shaped into a medium-length naturally rounded do. At slightly over six foot one, strong and slim, he looked like a professional athlete about to sign a major league contract.

Liza Caldicott was on floor duty. In her loud, challenging voice, “How can I help you?”

“I would like to buy a house.” Ty’s voice was deep, full.

“Oh!” Liza was stunned. Seldom did buyers walk in and straightforward announce such intentions. At the same time Liza wasn’t sure she wanted a black buying into great-grandfather Martin Caldicott’s legacy. “How much do you want to spend?”

“Not over a hundred,” Ty said seriously.

Liza gulped. She’d never sold a home costing more than fifty-four five. “We’ve got some in that range.” Ty began to snicker but controlled it. Liza continued—she still had not even asked him his name. “Can you put twenty percent down?”

“Yes ma’am,” Ty answered.

“An eighty-thousand-dollar mortgage”—she pulled out her blue-book—“runs five thirty-two a month. Your monthly salary should be above two thousand.”

“I don’t have a monthly,” Ty said.

“But you make twenty-five, thirty thousand a year?”

“Hell no, ma’am.”

“Wait a minute. Ah ... how much do you make?”

“Nothin.”

“Nothing?!”

“Nothin.”

“Then how are you going to buy a hundred thousand dollar home?”

“Hundred thousand?” Ty smiled wide. “I jus said hundred.”

“Hundred what?” Liza was really upset.

“Dollars, ma’am. In America our currency is dollars. Unless you find somebody willin to take pesos. I could pay in pesos.”

“Now wait a minute, Mr....”

“Dorsey. Mr. Dorsey. Quality Control and Sales Investigation, main office, Concord. You flunked. Is Mister Wapinski in?”

Liza was totally flabbergasted. She stood quickly, her thighs banging against the desk. She stumbled back, fumbled for words. “I’m—I’m sorry Mr. Dorsey. I ... ah ...”

“Please, just call Mr. Wapinski for me.”

Thirty minutes later in Peter Wilcox’s office with Peter and Bobby, Ty said, “Mr. Wilcox, you’ve got people here who couldn’t sell ice to soldiers in a rice paddy. I could sell it to Eskimos. I just need a chance.”

“You still have to get a license. That’s normal procedure. State law. Get your license, then come back and see me.”

“Let me help while I’m going to school.”

“We don’t have any nonsales positions....”

“I’m a good worker. I was a good troop. Ask Bobby....”

“There’s no doubt about it. But Ty—” Bobby felt Ty had put him on the spot, “why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I could have arranged—”

“I did, Bob. Las night. Don’t you remember?” Bobby just looked at him. “You was explainin how to establish a real estate listin farm. I told you I’d like to do that.”

“You did. You’re right. We just talked about so many...” Bobby’s voice tapered off.

Ty said to Peter, “Besides, you don’t have any minorities, do you?”

“There’s not many that live in town.”

“See? I could bring in a whole new segment of the market. But jus right now, I’m short a funds. I need your assistance.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “Let me think it over.”

“It sure would help—” Ty said, “to have an answer now.”

Peter stared at Ty. Ty gazed back but didn’t speak. Bobby fidgeted slightly. Peter and Ty remained locked eye to eye. Finally Peter said, “Get your license. If you can sell me on this, you can sell anything.”

That evening Ty was hyper. He had a hundred plans, a thousand things to do. All involving Bobby in one way or another, all for Bobby’s benefit. Red was somber, more pleasant to Ty than to Bobby. Red and Bobby retired early. Ty knew nothing of the possible pregnancy. He remained up, watching Red’s new television (“It’s only a cheap portable and certainly we need to watch the news!”), drinking beer, working on his schedule, his strategy to gain a piece of the pie.

“Ten weeks,” Red answered.

“Ten. I thought you said maybe six.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Red ...” He did not know what to say. Part of him wanted to call Stacy, tell her of Red’s pregnancy, tell her he was going to marry Red. Part just wanted out. He did not know how to approach it—getting married or getting out. He didn’t want to hurt Red, didn’t even want to upset her. He eyed her, sitting on the California King, her hands folded in her lap, her head down, and he thought he should stay with this woman who’d been his partner for sixteen months, thought how much he liked her, could like her, how beautiful her face was, how content he was, now, this very moment. Then he thought he’d write Stacy, explain in detail, but ... but that he should hold off for a few days, let things settle. This thing, he thought, this thing of Red’s, “But I don’t love you.” What does that mean? “Red ...”

“Um.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“Should we get married?”

“I don’t know.”

“I really like you. You know that, don’t you?”

“You’re just saying that....”

“No, I’m not. Really.”

“Bobby, I ... I like you too. But I’m not in love with you and I won’t love this child.”

He didn’t say anything, only hung his head. The light in the room was dim. For a long time they sat in silence, not looking at each other. Finally Red stood. “I’ll decide tomorrow. Saturday at the latest.”

Friday morning was overcast. Red and Bobby went to work as usual—perhaps a bit early. After they left Ty showered, dressed, ate. Then he gathered up a hundred small Shopping List pads printed with

Robert J. Wapinski

Great Homes Realty

926-1010

and for three hours he went door-to-door in Martinwood Estates, ringing doorbells, announcing to those who answered, “Hi. My name is Ty Dorsey. I’m an associate of Robert Wapinski’s—Bobby—of Great Homes Realty. We jus wanted you to have a pad with our phone number on it.”

Other than a polite thank-you, very few residents spoke with him. In 1970 large black men just didn’t go door-to-door in Martinwood Estates. Even Mrs. Grassplat, mother and housewife of the only black family in the subdivision, didn’t feel comfortable with Ty looming on her porch—expensive suit or not.

By three o’clock Peter Wilcox had taken two calls (and the local police three), questioning the legitimacy of Ty’s association to Great Homes. At three thirty one neighbor stopped Bobby in the Great Homes parking lot where he was returning from looking at a prospective listing with Sharon McGowan.

“You’re Wapinski, aren’t ya?”

“Yes. Mr. Sarkov, isn’t it?” Sarkov stood so close to the open door of the Chevy Bobby couldn’t stand. Sharon remained silently seated beside him.

“That’s right. You got a black guy living with you.”

“Huh? Ah ... Ty? Yeah, not—”

“There’s no blacks in Martinwood.”

“What? Wait a sec. What are—”

“We thought he was a guest. You and that redhead starting a commune?”

“A commune. Wait a second Mister Sarkov.” Bobby gently pushed him back, stood. “This guy saved my life in—” Bobby began but did not finish. It was an excuse and he knew it. Still, he now partially grasped the situation and he didn’t want to offend a potential client. “The guy’s my friend,” Bobby said. “That’s all.”

“Just a guest?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, you can have this back.” Sarkov handed Bobby the small shopping list pad. “We won’t be needing it.”

“What ...? Where’d you get—” Before Bobby could finish, his neighbor stalked off.

For the next hour Peter Wilcox told him how to handle and defuse the objections, Peter actually making Bobby write out and role-play a scenario.

Xxx: You’re the ones who have that new tall agent. (Peter: “They won’t say black but they’ll mean it.”)

Bobby: Oh, you mean Ty Dorsey?

Xxx: I think that was his name. It was kind of odd having him come to our door.

Bobby: I hope it didn’t upset you.

Xxx: It upset my wife some. She was home alone.

Bobby: I’m sorry. But let me ask you, if you had a man who’d saved your life (Peter: “Don’t say in Viet Nam”) and he asked you to help him for a few days—let him pass out a few grocery list pads so he can get back on his feet—would you be able to turn him down?

Xxx: Oh, I suppose not.

Bobby: (Peter: “You’ve got to say this immediately. Tie them down.”) Neither was I.

Bobby practiced but it so galled him to think he owed anyone an apology, before he left the office he tore the sheet into tiny pieces and flushed it down the commode. Still it ate at him—because Ty,
unlicensed
, could not legally solicit listings, and passing out the pads could be so construed; and because they were Bobby’s pads that Ty had taken, had distributed where Bobby wanted to make another personal appearance; and because it meant that Ty, having spent that much time going door-to-door, had probably not, as they’d agreed, gone to Academy Schools and registered for the Real Estate Salesman Licensing course that Bobby had agreed to stake.

From the house came Red’s laughing, Ty’s singing. “What the World needs now, is love, sweet love, / that the only thing, there jus too lit’le of ...”

“Man!” Bobby broke in. “What the hell were you doin today?”

Immediately Ty was apologetic, conciliatory. “I fucked up, huh?”